Miami Blues
by WuHaoNi
Summary: While on the trail of a ruthless Russian art thief, Neal and Peter end up in Miami and an unexpected brush with Neal's family lands them in a lot more trouble than they ever bargained for. Crossover with Burn Notice.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar. Nor Burn Notice for that matter.**

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"Today's lucky winner is Aleksandr Morozov," Peter Burke said, slapping a picture down on the conference room table.

Neal Caffrey took a minute to examine the slightly blurry profile of a man stepping out of a café. Captured by a telephoto lens of some kind, it was obvious that the man was unaware his picture was being taken. Heavyset and frumpy, he was dressed in what looked to be Salvation Army cast offs and was walking a similarly scruffy dog. It was an outfit crafted to make the wearer invisible, but Neal knew that hidden beneath the slouching grey cap and holey overcoat was a dangerous master of his craft.

"Scary guy," Neal said, serious for once.

"You know him?" asked Peter, picking up his mug of coffee.

"Not personally," said Neal with an expression that revealed how glad he was of this fact. "What did he steal?"

"Degas' _The Dance Class,_ from the Met's 'Impressionism: A Centenary Exhibition'," said Peter, placing a photograph of the painting next to Morozov's picture.

"Good taste," commented Neal, with an approval that Peter didn't like to hear. Peter shot him a look that said clearly _Whatever-you're-thinking-don't_. "What? I love Degas."

"Is there any artist that you _don't_ love?"

"Dali," said Neal immediately. "Well, only his paintings. His jewels on the other hand—beautiful."

Peter ignored this last comment. Judging by Neal's admiring tone, he had a sinking suspicion that at least one of Dali's jewels had ended up in Neal's possession. "Morozov is a member of St. Petersburg's Tambov gang. His friends are equipped with Kalashnikovs and are smuggling diamonds."

"Mob?" asked Neal.

"_Da_," confirmed Peter. "What do you know about Morozov, Neal?"

"Only rumors."

"We like rumors."

"In prison…people talk," Neal said, lifting a shoulder, a tell of discomfort. He didn't like to be reminded of jail. "Morozov, he steals for profit—"

"Is there any other kind?" muttered Jones.

"Appreciation of beauty," Neal said a bit sharply.

"Go to a museum," replied Jones.

"Continue, Neal," said Peter, cutting off Neal before he could offer up a retort.

"Generally, whatever Morozov steals ends up on the black market and he sells them to the highest bidder—someone who doesn't mind buying a hot painting."

"A risk taker then," Peter said, writing this characteristic up on the whiteboard that Neal had _borrowed_ from Missing Persons, three floors above them.

"Anyone who tries to steal from the Met is a risk taker," asserted Neal, taking advantage of Peter's turned back to put his feet up on the table.

"Didn't _you_ steal from the Met?" Diana turned to Neal.

"Allegedly," said Neal, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. He grinned comfortably at Jones.

"_Allegedly_," Peter repeated, and rolled his eyes. "Right."

"What'd you steal?" asked Jones.

"Do not ask him that," snapped Peter, then caught sight of Neal's feet and snapped his fingers. "Off the table."

"Well," drawled Neal, ignoring Peter's demand. "I may or may not have walked off with Sir Richard Westmacott's letters. See, the curator and I—"

"I don't want actual details," said Peter, pushing Neal's feet off the table himself. "I'm having a hard enough time keeping you out of jail as it is."

Neal leaned back in his chair and grinned in response.

"But…if the letters in question end up back at the Met, I'm sure there won't be any questions asked," Peter said, voice heavy with meaning. Diana and Jones exchanged glances. "So...if I'm Morozov, and I have a stolen painting worth millions of dollars, where am I headed?"

Neal's hand shot up and Peter ignored him. "Anybody?"

"Back home?" offered Diana.

"Where Interopl might intercept me?" Peter said. "Not likely. Jones, any theories?"

"Hide out until the pressure's off?"

"Wrong," singsonged Neal.

Jones scowled.

"That's good," Peter countered, writing it up on the whiteboard. "Then maybe he can fence the painting to a suitable buyer."

Neal imitated a buzzer and leapt out of his seat to erase the phrase 'go to ground'. "He's not going to do that."

Peter crossed his arms. "Okay, Neal, what do you think he's going to do?"

"Find a buyer and sell the painting," Neal said in an _isn't-it-obvious_ tone. "The kind of buyer that Morozov caters to isn't going to care that it's stolen. In fact, I bet that this was a commissioned job."

"Someone paid Morozov to steal the painting?" Diana frowned.

Neal pointed his finger at her. "Exactly. You find the buyer, you find the painting."

"And Morozov," added Peter. "Okay, who do we think Morozov would work for?"

"Anyone whose name ends with an –itch or an –ov," Neal said, uncapping a marker and beginning to draw on the whiteboard.

Peter pinched his brow. "Okay, Diana, Jones, go rustle the feathers of the good citizens of Brighton Beach. Find anyone who has a taste for Impressionist art, and get a name."

Jones and Diana stood, gathering jackets and tossing empty coffee cups in the bin before leaving. Peter watched them go, before turning to Neal, who had drawn an unsurprisingly good rendition of the Cathedral of Saint Basil.

"Neal?"

"Yeah?" he replied absently, concentrating on shading in one of the domes. Peter was suddenly and sorely tempted to erase his work, but restrained himself, knowing that Neal would sulk if he did.

"_Exactly _how well do you know the curator of the Met?"

* * *

"Letters, Neal?" Peter said, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as they waited in heavy traffic. "I would have expected something flashier from you."

Neal looked over him and smirked. "I thought you didn't want details, Peter."

"I don't, but…_letters_?" Peter made a face.

"Do you know who Sir Richard Westmacott is?"

"No, but I bet you're going to tell me."

"He was Great Britain's most successful official sculptor, producing approximately 275 works during his forty-year career," Neal reeled off with puppy like enthusiasm, reminding Peter of tours that he had taken with Elizabeth. "His greatest sculpture is widely thought to be 'The Progress of Civilization', a pediment for the British Museum. In 1837—"

"Why didn't you just steal one of his statues?" Peter cut in, cutting Neal off mid-spiel.

His train of thought interrupted, Neal briefly looked blank before giving a Peter a rejoining scoff.

"Monuments, Peter. He sculpted monuments. It'd be like trying to steal 'The Apotheosis of Washington'," Neal said, adding for further clarification, "That's the fresco in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol Building."

"Thank you, Neal, for the history lesson," Peter said irritably. "I _know_ what the 'The Apotheosis of Washington' is."

"You didn't know what a pediment was."

"Moving on…you still didn't tell me exactly how you and the curator met."

"I helped him out of a tight spot once," Neal said vaguely. "He likes me."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Of course he does."

He parked the car on a side street not far from the museum. Neal hopped out, and looked longingly at the bakery a few doors down.

"Can we-?"

"If you behave," said Peter, locking the car. He began striding down the sidewalk. Neal followed, pouting a little.

"You treat me like a little kid sometimes, Peter."

Peter looked back at him impassively, as if to say, _Well, if you're going to act like one…_

Neal shrugged his hands into his pockets. "Go ahead, give me your lecture. Don't touch anything. Don't even breathe."

"I'm not going to lecture you." Peter hid a smile at Neal's visible sag of relief. "Mostly because it wouldn't make a difference."

"Just say it," Neal said, hitting the crosswalk button. "You don't trust me."

"I do trust you. It's just that you don't travel very far when I throw you."

Neal grinned a little at that. "Touché."

They crossed the street, and began making their way up the long stretch of stairs leading up to the front doors of the Met.

"I need you to do something for me," said Peter.

"Oh?" Neal said, holding open the door for him.

"Get me an 'in' with the curator. Some of these guys…they stonewall so much, you wonder if they even _want_ their art back."

Neal winked at him. "Not a problem."

"_Guten tag!_"

The joyful exclamation came from a stooped elderly man by the entrance, his voice heavily accented by a thick German accent.

"You've come back!"

Peter smiled. "Looks like I brought the right guy for the job."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar nor Burn Notice.**

**A/N: Degas' The Dance Class is indeed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. All of the information about the painting was reworked from the site's description. Names have been changed.**

**Also, changes have been made to the exchange from last chapter. The curator now greets Neal with 'Guten tag.'**

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"_Wie geht es Ihnen_, Herr Eichmann." Neal greeted the curator in what sounded to Peter like flawless German.

"Life, it goes on," the curator said, lifting a shoulder. "It has been a long time since I have seen you."

"Neal's been a little busy," Peter injected.

"Neal?" the curator queried, turning a surprised look upon Neal, who grinned sheepishly at a suddenly exasperated Peter. "I thought your name was Heinrich."

"Peter likes to joke," Neal said, lightly hitting Peter on the arm.

"Do not hit me," Peter hissed.

"Don't out me," Neal hissed back, maintaining his smile. He turned to Eichmann. "Will you excuse us?"

Eichmann bowed. "You know where my office is."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "'Out you?'"

"Not like that!"

Peter quirked a small smile. "I won't blow your cover on one condition—you promise to return those letters."

"Peter…" Neal said, a little bit desperate now. "That might not be possible."

"Or—you use your considerable talent to replace them."

Neal tilted his head. "Are you suggesting I f—"

"Don't say the 'f' word," Peter said, forestalling any further words by holding up his hand. "Just find a way. A legal way. Well…semi-legal."

"I thought you were of the 'law is black and white' school of thought."

Peter grabbed Neal by the arm. "Come on, Heinrich."

* * *

Eichmann's spacious office was decorated in the semi-formal style of longtime academics: rich cherry wood furniture, and an assortment of liquor bottles collected on a table away from the window.

The curator was sitting in his cracked green office chair when they entered, and he motioned to the armchairs in front of his desk.

"Please sit. Would you care for something to drink?"

Peter shook his head 'no', and after a small pause, Neal followed suit.

"Heinrich, what may I do for you? Are you undertaking one of your investigations?"

"I'm out of insurance fraud now," Neal said smoothly, running a hand down the front of his suit. He refused to look at Peter. "I'm actually working with the FBI as a consultant."

Eichmann leaned back, folding his hands across his stomach. "So. You are here about ze painting then."

"We are. I'm Agent Peter Burke. Can you tell me a little bit about it?"

"Certainly. It was first shown in 1876 at ze second Impressionist exhibition and was willed to ze museum in 1982 by Mrs. John Lewis Wrentham. Ze subject is a dance class conducted by Jules Perrot, who was a famous ballet master." The curator took off his glasses and began polishing them on the corner of his tweed jacket. "Have you seen it?"

Peter grinned slightly. "In my college art history class. It has dancers, right?"

"Most people assume that Degas painted ballerinas exclusively," Neal said. "He actually started painting traditional historical portraits."

The curator opened the laptop on his desk, a curiously modern item in the midst of all the history. "My granddaughter insists I keep in contact with her through BookFace. I do not understand what is so difficult about writing a letter with this new generation."

He pulled up a picture of the painting. "If you examine the artistic composition, it at first look appears to be an Impressionist work. However, Degas considered himself a realist."

Peter nodded. "Right. I'm familiar with that one. I'm actually more interested in how the painting was stolen."

"Well, I do not know." Eichmann spread his hands. "That is why I have enlisted you, ze polizei, to help."

"I was thinking more along the lines of security. Alarms, cameras—that sort of thing."

"I will get you Lena." He picked up the phone. "Olivia, please tell Lena to come to my office, thank you."

"Who's Lena?" Neal asked, frowning. "What happened to Freddie?"

The curator frowned. "We had to let him go. He was become unreliable. It very much was a shame."

"And Larry?"

"Mr. Daley returned to his previous employment at ze Natural History Museum." Eichmann leaned forward. "Heinrich, one reads ze most interesting things when one looks at ze internet."

Neal nodded a bit warily. He didn't like how suddenly serious Eichmann looked.

"Including articles about ones' former work companions who have been arrested. Curious, is it not?"

Neal tried for a beguiling smile, but it came out more as a wince. "Herr Eichmann…"

"I am not one for pretty stories as excuses. I only wish to remember ze kind young man who assisted me many a time. Consider ze incident behind us."

A knock sounded at the door, and Peter turned around, eager to be out of the office.

Lena turned out to be a whip-thin woman with brownish-blonde hair gathered into a severe bun. The traditional black and white security guard outfit hung on her frame, and Peter thought the regulation gun on her belt looked more like an Uzi than he was comfortable with.

"You rang," she said in a rippling British accent, looking from Peter to Neal with curious eyes.

"Yes, Lena, this are Peter and Neal. They are here for looking at ze painting."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "You look familiar. Have I arrested you before?"

Lena gave a snort. "Hardly. I'd never allow myself to be caught."

The three men stared at her. She chuckled blithely.

"Oh, you should see your faces. You thought I was serious!"

Eichmann gave a slight smile. Peter still looked at her suspiciously, and Neal was trying to figure out why her gaze seemed to be boring a hole in his head.

"Well, you want to have a look at the scene of the crime, don't you?" she chirruped saucily, and left the room.

"I don't like the look of this one," Peter said in an undertone as he and Neal followed Lena up the flight up stairs to the Impressionist Exhibition room. "New head of security and the painting 'mysteriously' goes missing right after her arrival? Smacks of inside job to me."

"Coincidence," Neal offered up, only half-listening. There was a Monet in the room just beyond that he had always wanted to get his hands on. If only Peter hadn't been there…

"I don't buy it. Find out her story, Neal."

Neal looked at him sideways. "Do you want me to take her out on a date?"

"I want you to get information."

"Am I paying for this out of pocket?"

"The FBI is not going to pay for you to seduce a woman!"

Neal grinned unrepentantly. "Just checking."

He ran his fingers through his hair and caught up to Lena, who was holding open the door with an expectant look on her face.

"Thank you madam." Neal gave her his charming smile—the one that no woman except for Britney Nicole had been able to resist.

Lena merely swept in front of him, leaving him momentarily dumbfounded. Peter, despite himself, couldn't help but chuckle at Neal's clear rejection.

"Go get 'em tiger."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Burn Notice nor White Collar.**

**A/N: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews. Keep 'em coming people; it inspires me to keep working.**

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Neal jogged next to Lena.

"So, Lena, how did you get into security?"

"I needed a job," she said crisply.

"But you must love art," said Neal. He paused. "Don't you?"

"I find it boring."

"_Boring?_" Neal yelped. "How could you—"

Lena turned her head away from him and pointed at a blank area of wall. "This is where the Degas hung. It was to be taken down in two weeks, after the exhibition had finished its run."

"Where do you store it?" Peter asked, since Neal was too busy fuming at Lena's answer to talk.

"A secure vault under the museum. Only three people have access to it. Myself, Mr. Eichmann, and Theo Woodbury, who was to restore the painting."

Peter rubbed at his chin. "That vault—it's an electronic key card, right?"

"Yes." Lena placed a hand on one slender hip. "It wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking."

Neal's head snapped up. On the defensive, and they hadn't even started making any insinuations. Maybe there was something to Peter's theory of an inside job. He began to scan the room, taking in each detail with an eye to this idea.

Lena's remark had clearly registered on Peter's radar, because he stepped forward with a distinct frown on his face.

"Why would we think you had anything to do with it?"

Lena huffed a laugh. "Oh, do the math. Three people, each with a 33.3% chance. Eichmann's old enough to be knocked out of the running, and so I start looking pretty guilty."

She winked at Peter, who stared at her, startled.

"Well, when you talk like that…"

"Of course, I wasn't even in state when the theft occurred," she continued. "I started working for the Met on Friday, painting was stolen Thursday."

"Those cameras," Neal said, pointing to the cameras stationed on the ceiling. "How long have they been out of commission?"

"The cameras are fine," Lena said. "Red light's flashing. I would've gotten a call if they weren't."

"They should be rotating," Neal replied, and indeed, the cameras remained stationary, pointing at opposite ends of the gallery. With an unmonitored path leading directly to the painting.

Lena pressed a finger to her radio. "Ian, can you check the cameras in the Impressionist Exhibition room? They seem to have been stopped."

"_Camera's lookin' fine up here_," came a Southern drawl.

"Are you sure?" Lena said, irritation clear in her voice.

"_Have a look for yerself_," Ian replied.

Lena raised an eyebrow, and motioned for Peter and Neal to leave. "Let's have a look."

XXXX

Ian was a portly, blond man with a buzzcut. He chewed fretfully on a carrot stick as he pointed to the array of camera screens captured from the Impressionist Exhibition room.

"Someone must'a messed with our system," he said, jabbing a blunt finger at the frozen image of the gallery. "I can't imagine how else that coulda happened."

Peter gave a short nod. "You've been hacked, all right. We'll have our Forensics team take a look. At least we know how the painting was stolen."

"Who has access to this room?" Neal asked.

"All of the security team," answered Lena. "

"We'll need a list," said Peter. He clapped Neal on the shoulder. "Come on, we need to have a chat with Mr. Woodbury."

XXXX

"You didn't get her number," Peter said as they took a seat in the bakery Neal had spotted earlier.

They had been informed that Theo Woodbury had called in sick, and Peter decided that it would be a good time for a lunch break.

Neal huffed a sigh. "I just thought she didn't have anything to do with it."

"She's out of your league," Peter said. He smirked around his turkey sandwich.

"Can we focus on the case?" Neal replied, opening his cup of soup. "I think you were right earlier; it has to be an inside job. One of these guys has to be connected to Morosov."

"Forensics will be able to see which security officer was on duty when the painting was stolen. That'll give us a starting point. What I want to know is: why is she trying to do our jobs for us?"

"Maybe she's just being helpful."

"There's a reason for everything. She has some sort of agenda; you could tell that she could care less about this job."

Neal cocked his head. "Do you think she's involved?"

"I think she's hiding something. And I'm going to find out what that could be."

XXXX

Lena Anders, better known as Fiona Glennane to her friends, slipped out of the Met after her shift was finished. She said good-bye to Ian, declined his offer of drinks, and walked to a car in a parking garage a few blocks away.

"I hate New York," groused Sam Axe, who was sitting in the driver's seat. "When are we going back to Miami?"

"When the job is done," Fiona said crisply. "I can assure you, I have the worse end of the deal. All you have to do is walk around the museum and pretend to be interested in those stupid paintings. The FBI's involved now, Sam. If they find out who I am—"

"They won't find out," Sam said. "And Mikey and Jesse'll raise holly hell to break you outta prison."

"They're occupied with keeping Morozov from killing Theo." Fiona threw her head back against the headrest. "Maybe I should call in sick."

"Until you know you're compromised, we stay the course."

"Easy for you to say. I don't like the look of those agents who came around today. They're smart, Sam. Smarter than usual."

"I'll give Mike a call tomorrow. See what he says." Sam clipped Fiona on the shoulder. "I know this great bar in Brooklyn…"

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Oh fine. But you're picking up the tab."


End file.
